


You're Steele the One

by Gozer



Category: Remington Steele (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Movie References, Mystery, Romantic Comedy, screwball comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:52:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gozer/pseuds/Gozer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old-school Remington Steele story from the early 90's:  enjoy some big shoulder pads and big hair with your battle of the sexes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Steele the One

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally published in “Crazy Quilt 2”, a gen multi-fandom anthology published in May 1994. It has been gently edited from the original.

You’re Steele the One

By Teenygozer

 

Mildred Krebs stared soulfully into the window of the “Boot-tique” at the rows of elegant leather footwear displayed there. They were all she could desire—elegant shanks to the knee or higher, some of embossed alligator, others soft as a pair of gloves, still others of sturdy saddle leather for riding. Perfect! Except for one thing: “I wonder if they have any boots _not_ designed for the terminally pointy-toed,” she mused aloud, looking down at her own size 9 triple E’s. Mildred hitched up the strap to her overstuffed shoulder bag and went back to staring at a particularly sexy pair of black suede boots with impossibly high stiletto heels, sighing.

“Bad sign, Ms. Krebs, talking to yourself,” the cultured tones were unmistakable. “First sign of encroaching senility, I believe....”

With a start, Mildred became aware of the reflection of a smiling, handsome face in the store-front glass over the black boots. She turned quickly to find Remington Steele standing casually-but-elegantly beside her, the picture of understated elegance in a dove-gray business suit and white-on-white Henley shirt, his tie a silk symphony of harmonious blues and grays. All that was needed was a photographer to complete the picture of a man posing for a spread in GQ.

“Mister Steele, you startled me! What are you doing here? Mildred consulted her watch. “You should be at 1126 Foreman Street, on the third floor, for a consult with a Mr. Brack about the shrinkage going on in his string of flower shops. Twenty-two dozen long-stem American Beauties disappearing a week, I understood him to say.”

“Ah, yes, Ms. Krebs; the Case of the Pilfered Posies will, alas, not go down in the Remington Steele Case Book as a resounding success on our parts. One Mr. Alphonse Garvey, head cashier-jockey of the main branch, if you will pardon the arboreal pun, of the chain is in the hospital after his attempted suicide. His farewell note explained it all. Seems he was sending his three wives a dozen roses a day to allay their suspicions that he was seeing another woman.”

“ _Three_ wives? That’s only twenty-one dozen roses a week, Mr. Steele. What about the twenty-second?”

“Interesting, that. Seems he was working on adding a wife number four to the bunch. One dozen of the roses were sent per week to a Ms. Fishbine, whom he was hoping to marry in June. He was a traditionalist as well as a bigamist; June bride, white dress and veil, the whole thing.”

“Wonderful! Since you’re free, you can take me to lunch, like you promised!” She grabbed his arm coquettishly.

Almost instinctively, he did a neat sidestep, disentangling his arm from her grasp. “Uh, uh, what?” For once, the dapper con artist was at a loss for words. He vaguely remembered making just such an offer in the afterglow of a successfully completed case, a case successfully completed entirely because of Mildred’s computer wizardry. “Uh, Ms. Krebs—Mildred! Mildred, I have to get back to the office. Ms. Holt is waiting for me....”

“So, stand her up! It’s not like you haven’t done an awful lot of totally irresponsible things before. She should be used to it by now.”

“You know, Ms. Krebs, I liked it a lot better when you used to think I was _Remington Steele_ ,” he said the name with a flourish and a bit of regret.

Mildred shook her head ruefully, but smiled, too. “Oh, take me to lunch... boss!”

It was the right thing for her to say. He brightened and offered her his arm.

* * *

La Pêche et Grenouille was trés, trés chic. Especially the prices.

Both the junior members of the Remington Steele and Associates offices ignored the prices, surveying the names of the dishes on the menu; Mildred, because she knew her lunch companion was picking up the bill; Steele, because he had several of the company’s credit cards in his wallet. The waiter stood by respectfully.

“I think pâté de foie gras is a tad heavy for lunch; don’t you, my dear?” Mildred nodded in mute agreement. “The consommé de la maison is all right, if you like leek soup,” Steele added, in his most snobbish, knowing manner. He casually tossed the menus on the table with a disinterested air. “We’ll start with the salade verte, a light oil and balsamic vinaigrette on that. Coq aux limone avec pomme frites, a light vin blanc, say, the Sevielle ’78, followed by café au lait and the dessert menu, my good man.”

The waiter bowed solemnly and left with their order.

“I must admit, I always liked how you could do that,” Mildred whispered across the table.

“Do what?” he seemed genuinely confused.

“Fake out snooty waiters in high-toned places like this, real debonair-like...,” she said, shaking out her linen napkin and placing it on her lap. He smiled smugly. “...just like you really _had_ class or something.” His smile fell.

“Ms. Krebs, if we are to continue our working relationship, you are going to have to stop this cruel and undeserved sniping.”

“Undeserved!?”

“Well, perhaps not _so_ undeserved—but cruel nonetheless!”

“But—”

“No ‘buts’ about it, Ms. Krebs... Oh, why can’t things go back to the way they were? It was such fun, if a bit hectic.”

“It’s never gonna be the way it was! It wasn’t _right_ the way it was! Jeez, I had to fight male chauvinism my whole life to get as far as I did in the I.R.S.—now, I cringe when I think how rude I was to the _real_ boss, calling her ‘girlie’, and worse. I was the biggest chauvinist of all,” her tone became accusatory. “And to think I worshiped you!”

He sipped his ice water and savored it with narrowed eyes as if it were the finest champagne. “If you cannot find some balance between starry-eyed reverence and total disdain, well... you aren’t the woman I always thought you were.”

Mildred speared a warm roll with her butter knife and stared to butter it, uncomfortably aware that she could still be manipulated by the master of manipulation, but also aware that he had a point. “Yeah. You may be a louse, but you’ve always been a pretty okay louse. It’s just as bad to lean over too far backwards as it is to fall on your face, I guess.”

“Prosaically put, but accurate.”

They were spared the need for further character assassination and revelation by the arrival of their greens, fried chicken, and french-fries.

* * *

It was a distracted Ms. Holt who answered phones that afternoon as she handed tissues to the sobbing young woman who perched on the edge of the reception desk.

“Wouldn’t you like to sit on that soft, comfy sofa, Ms. Fishbine?” Laura cajoled, hoping against hope.

“Oh, no, no; that’s all right. I’m fine. Don’t go to any trouble over me...,” replied the tall, thin Ms. Fishbine, who broke into a fresh bout of sobs.

Laura gritted her teeth. She couldn’t really blame the woman, glancing over at the three ladies who sat, very properly and disapprovingly, in the waiting area. She was at all times acutely aware of their watchful attention, though most of it was spillover from the angry stares directed at Ms. Fishbine.

“Where is he?!” grated a voice from that direction.

 _Well_ , thought Laura; _the natives are getting restless_ , but she responded politely, “May I help you, Mrs., uh, Garvey?”

Delphina Garvey, as first wife to the soon-to-be-incarcerated bigamist Mr. Garvey, had apparently also appointed herself Head Wife, as in some tribal village. She certainly looked as if she had her warpaint on; her face powder was thick and white with slashes of red at the cheek and lip and black, hawk-like eyebrows. Laura would not have relished meeting her in a dark alley.

“Don’t you mean ‘Mrs. Garvey Number One’? That’s what you’re thinking! But that’s neither here nor there. Where is Mr. Steele?”

“I really don’t know; he _is_ supposed to call in....”

“Men! You don’t have to tell us about them. Irresponsible, uncaring....”

“...low class, self-absorbed...,” chimed in Mrs. Garvey Number Two from her seat.

“...sons of bitches!” finished Mrs. Garvey Number Three, leafing through a magazine.

All three looked alike: they were all brightly, if expensively, dressed in jewel-tone power suits; heavily made up; had black, beady eyes; and were built like fireplugs. Ms. Fishbine was the odd man out; tall and gawky with pale, waxy skin and a slightly hooked nose that gave her the look of a gentle crane. She was dressed in pastel green. Her eyes were limpid gray but also red from crying. “Oh, I _do_ hope he’s all right!”

“Who, Steele?” snapped Mrs. Garvey #1.

“N-no! My darling Alphonse!”

“ _Our_ darling Alphonse, you mean! And I suppose you don’t give a damn if Steele’s laid out in an alley somewhere, dead as a doornail; do you, Fishbine?” Delphina Garvey’s black eyes pierced the fragile woman with a needle-like stare.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” Ms. Fishbine was genuinely horrified and rushed to assure Laura. “Oh, Ms. Holt; I hope Mr. Steele is fine wherever he is!”

“It’s okay; I never thought you meant anything else... oh, dear; excuse me....” All four phone lines had started up unholy chorus of rings. The “head” wife huffed disgustedly and stomped back to her seat. Ms. Fishbine chewed on her wet hanky and stared gloomily off into the distance.

Laura grimly picked up on line one.

* * *

“Wow, that was a real nice lunch, boss,” Mildred grabbed the ashtray and slid it into her purse. At Steele’s pointed stare, she shrugged. “It’s a souvenir! Lissen, I’ll meet you outside. I just have to powder my nose.” She moved off in the direction of the ladies room.

“The check, garçon,” Steele waved their waiter over and produced one of the Remington Steele and Associates credit cards in his possession.

“Vairy good, monsieur,” the waiter quickly added up the bill, calculating the tax in his head. “Naturellement, I added $22.50 to pay for the cut crystal ashtray Madame sleeped into her purse.”

“Ah, yes; naturellement,” Steele grinned sheepishly and added a sizable tip in embarrassment, then escaped out the impressive glass front doors of the elegant restaurant.

Now, where had Mildred got to? Women seemed to have a natural affinity for ladies’ rooms. Steele pondered fancifully at the odd rites and rituals that must go on in there to take so much time and waited, and waited, and waited....

When Mildred finally came out of the restaurant, Steel consulted his watch pointedly. “What were you doing in there? Swedish massage?”

“For your information, there was a _line!_ You guys wouldn’t know about stuff like waiting on lines to get into the restroom, would you?”

“Philosophers have argued the various merits of and differences between the sexes for thousands of years; I doubt you and I will be able to settle it standing on the street corner of Main and 59th Street.”

“We don’t have to settle it; we both seem to agree that it’s all just a difference in the plumbing.” She smiled and grabbed his arm, dragging him off in the direction of his car, and he allowed her to guide him, confusedly wondering if she’d meant that as an intentional double-entendre or not.

* * *

Upon their arrival at the Remington Steele and Associates office, Mildred and Steele were surprised to find an annoyed Ms. Holt feeding fresh tissues to a pathetic, sobbing wreck, the phones ringing off their hooks, and a veritable Greek chorus of grim-looking ladies who looked like they were mean enough to chew, pardon the expression, stainless steel.

“My dear Ms. Holt! Now, I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I! And I had such faith in you....”

“Can it, Mr. Steele—Mildred! The phones! Help!”

“Sure thing, Ms. Holt. Remington Steele and Associates, please hold... Remington Steele and Associates, please hold... Remington Steele and Associates, please hold... Remington Steele and Associates; I’m sorry, all the lines are busy, could you call back? Thank you! There you go; nothing to it, Ms. Holt.”

This seemed to annoy Laura, but she suddenly smiled, which made Steele very nervous. His fears were confirmed when she grabbed his arm chummily and started to guide him towards his office. He was being led about like a show pony an awful lot today, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Mr. Steele, these ladies are here to see _you_... something about roses and attempted suicide and I immediately knew you were somehow involved. Also something about somebody you put in the hospital; naughty, naughty, Mr. Steele. Why don’t you just take them into your nice, quiet office and clear the whole thing up for them; there you go....”

“Suicide? Hospital? My office?” He glanced around at the three angry women who followed closely and were now crowding him into his door. “A moment, ladies, just let me get this door open—ah, Ms. Holt, why don’t you sit it?” His eyes pleaded with her over the trio’s heads. Her heart softened for a moment and she was on the verge of relenting, but he added, “...you can take notes!” and at that, her jaw set. There was no way she was going to help him out this time.

“Oh, but Mr. Steele, I’m no longer a secretary, remember? I don’t carry coffee. I don’t take shorthand. I don’t take notes! I’ll be sure to send in your secretary when she gets back from lunch!”

“My... secretary?”

“Yeah. Remember her? Passive? Easily pushed around? Good, old _Myrtle Groggins_?”

He shuddered, remembering some of the more embarrassing things he’d done to her in the past, including dubbing her ‘Myrtle Groggins’ in front of a roomful of suspects. He decided that facing a trio of nasty-looking clients was definitely preferable to facing a Laura Holt who’d finally gotten fed up. Damn his sense of humor!

“Very well, Ms. Holt,” he nodded to her, bowing to the inevitable, and ushered the women into his office where they all perched on various chairs like vultures clustered around a fresh kill.

“Now, dear ladies; how may I help you?”

“I’m Delphina Garvey, this is Maggie Garvey, and this here is Rita Olive Garvey.”

“Ah, that explains the family resemblance—you’re all sisters....”

The stunned silence was immediately filled by outraged voices screaming their protests. It was so loud, had his survival instincts not been as fine-tuned as they were, he might have missed the gentle tapping at the door. Hoping that Laura had heard the screams and was now taking pity on him, he called out over the noise, “Come in—ladies, please, a little decorum— _come in!”_

It was not Laura, but he vaguely remembered seeing the woman in the lobby. She did look rather different without a handkerchief covering her face. “I think I’m supposed to—to be in here, too... I think?” she said softly. The woman’s beaky face and round, pale eyes immediately put him to mind of that character actress of the ‘30’s who always played the role of the librarian or the maiden aunt in ‘B’ movies. Now, what was her name?

“Francie Fishbine.”

“No, that’s not it... Emma Cauldfield?”

The woman looked confused for a moment, then said, “Do you mean Emmaline Cauldfield, who played the murder suspect in ‘The Overdue Book’, released in 1936?”

“That’s it!” Steele snapped his fingers in recognition, “Emmaline Cauldfield—she was cleared when she was became the killer’s fifth victim! My favorite line in the movie was, ‘Oh Inspector Hargreaves, the innocent dead!”

“It turned out to be the wealthy philanthropist who’d killed all those librarians... but I don’t see what that has to do with me. I’m Francie Fishbine.”

“My dear Ms. Fishbine, come in—I was, er, I was just trying to complete the London Times crossword puzzle, yes, that’s what I was doing. Seventy-nine across was driving me mad. Thank you so much for helping me.” He quickly escorted her to the sole unoccupied seat in the office. “Now, how can I help you? Are you with these other ladies?”

A snort from Delphina Garvey and a short, sharp laugh from Rita Olive seemed to jar Ms. Fishbine, but she held her head high and replied, “Yes, we’re all here together. We are all concerned about Alphonse.”

Suddenly, hearing that name jogged his memory and he and he remembered what Laura had said in the lobby—attempted suicide, roses, somebody he’d put in the hospital.

“Alphonse Garvey? You think _I_ put Alphonse Garvey in the hospital? Ladies; dear, sweet ladies; I assure you on my word of honor, I never met the gentleman in my life! Yesterday at 4:00PM or thereabouts, Mildred made an appointment for me to meet with his employer, Mr. Brack, today, but I never—!”

“Look, we know all about it,” Delphina Garvey interrupted him. “In fact, we know more than you do, so you might want to shut it and listen up! When Brack told his most trusted—ha!—employee of fifteen years that he’d hired the great Remington Steele to find the thief, Alfie freaked out! He figured the jig was up and tried to pull his own plug, permanent-like. The little weenie couldn’t even get that right....”

“And you ladies all found out about the heinous crime that had been perpetrated upon your sweet selves and the little, er, weenie is going to collect his just desserts in some prison or other. I fail to see what you need me for.”

“That’s just it!” burst out Rita Olive, getting a black stare from Delphina. “He ain’t gonna go to jail! He tried to commit suicide; he’s gonna plead diminished circumstances!”

“A couple of months in the cookie farm is all he’s gonna get, damn him!” interrupted Maggie Garvey, “He’s gotta pay one way or the other—is Alcatraz still open?”

Delphina Garvey got up, reasserting her dominance. She aggressively pushed her face into Steele’s to make her point and he recoiled. “We want you to either prove the little rat’s as sane as sane can be, so he can get tossed deep into some dark, bug-infested cell somewhere for a couple or ten years or so. Or....”

The rest of her sentence was drowned out by Ms. Fishbine’s outburst of tears. The three ladies turned to her and shouted in unison, “Shaddap!”, but her wails just got louder. Steele poked about in a desk drawer until he located the unopened box of tissues he remembered seeing there.

“Ms. Fishbine, you seem upset by their plans—how do you fit in?”

“Well,” she sobbed, “it seems I haven’t got a whole lot of say in the matter—I’m just a lowly girlfriend, not one of the wives. But I know that if my sweet, darling Alphonse signs a paper promising he won’t try to take a single thing from any of them or try to sue for alimony, just leaves with the clothes on his back and never bothers them again, they won’t press charges. He’ll be free to start a new life, unsullied by past associations.” It was obvious to whom she was referring.

“But this is madness, ladies—he’s a bigamist, a felon. He isn’t even really married to two of you, how can he sue for alimony?”

“You mean the only one with anything to really worry about is Delphina?” Rita Olive ventured, turning a sharp gaze on the lead wife.

“That’s right! Just like a man! Divide and conquer!” huffed Delphina. Her hard, black eyes appealed to her two sisters-in-adversity. “Anybody can sue anybody for anything! You know what a wimp he is, all it’ll take is one smart lawyer getting’ his claws into Alphie and presto! He could drag you into court, tied up your finances for years, trying to blackmail you into a settlement. And if you don’t settle, who knows, he might even win! This is California, anything can happen here and usually does!”

Maggie and Rita Olive still looked conflicted, but Delphina turned to Steele as if they’d just given her their hearty assent. “Lissen, Steele. The little geek’s scared witless of you. We wanna hire you to prove he’s sane so he can go to prison or get him to sign a few little legal documents for us three.” She snapped open her large, red handbag and rifled for a moment, then pulled out a folder and shoved it at his chest. Reflexively, he took it. “That there has been drawn up from the best lawyer on the West coast and it’ll lock that little weenie out good and tight. You just get the little slug to sign it and we'll pay you five thousand bucks for yer trouble.”

“Oh; do, do, do,” whimpered Ms. Fishbine, clutching a soggy tissue to her heaving bosom, “save my baby from himself!”

Steele surveyed the four pairs of hopeful eyes; three gleaming with avarice and one with mute appeal. Well, and why not do it? An easy five-grand for an hour’s work sounded fair. He knew for a fact he could con almost anybody into agreeing to almost anything. All it took was the correct stimulus applied in the right place.

“In what hospital will I find Mr. Garvey?”

Ms. Fishbine jumped up and down, clapping her hands prettily. The Garvey Gang (as he now thought of them) sat back with a mutual satisfied sigh.

 

* * *

City Central Hospital was a big place, with its various medical departments broken into color-coded sections called “wings.” From the lobby, one followed a strip of color on the floor to the wing of choice. Laura and Steele had followed a strip that Laura had privately dubbed “gym-suit green” to an elevator, and the green sign directed them to the psychiatric wing on the 12th floor.

“I don’t like this,” said Laura, pressing the “up” button, located under the “NO SMOKING—Oxygen in use” sign.

“You astonish me,” muttered Steele, dead-pan. City Central was a huge place and the building security seemed little more than a badly-Xeroxed set of rules posted next to each elevator bay detailing the do’s-and-don’ts of visiting the patients. Apparently all attempted suicides, unless in critical condition or worse, were housed in the psychiatric wing of the hospital. That boded well for Mr. Garvey’s physical condition. “I didn’t know you were afraid of hospitals, Ms. Holt—a common phobia, or so I’ve been told. Is it the smell? The white walls? The constant announcements over the loudspeaker?”

“I am certainly not afraid of hospitals, as you well know! What I do not like, Mr. Steele, is the fact that we are now going to visit an injured man in a delicate state of mental health to bully him into signing away all of his rights.”

“You saw those harpies, Ms. Holt. The sooner they are out of this pathetic, broken man’s life, the better! He should jump at the chance to avoid their vigorous prosecution! The worst that can happen to him without their voices howling for his blood is a turn in a mental home; at best, he will be released to the gentle care of Ms. Fishbine. And if he _is_ sick, Ms. Holt, and who can doubt it after seeing those three, that is probably the best cure for him.” He knew he had her liberal sensibilities in a vice-grip, if not her soft heart. She just squared her shoulders and refused to comment. Steele knew she was in “wait-and-see” mode. They exited the elevator and found themselves in a pleasant waiting area. There was no one manning the green front desk.

“Now what?” Laura asked. Steele did not deign to answer so foolish a question and peered over the desk. He announced, “Garvey, Room 1246,” and simply walked down the corridor to the room, Laura following him closely. They stopped in front of the door. “After you,” she said, waving him on. He grimly took hold of the door handle and turned it, girding himself for what he might find.

They did not expect to find a replica of the Amazonian jungle.

There were blooms everywhere. Lush hothouse flowers cascaded over plastic vases, bowls, even bedpans held orchids and roses. A large horse shoe made of white gardenias and carnations with the banner “Good Luck Alphie” stood in one corner. Apparently Alphonse Garvey was well-loved in his place of business.

Mr. Garvey, too, was a surprise. Led by his multiple wives’ descriptions of him—“little weenie” and “little slug”—it was no wonder they had assumed he would be, well... _little_. He was not. With iron-pumped, brawny arms and a head of black, curly hair that fell appealingly into his dark-lashed, brown eyes; he put Steele to mind of Victor Mature at the height of his popularity; perhaps it was the white hospital gown looking like an ancient Roman toga that helped the illusion. He was the kind of man who would appeal very strongly to a certain kind of woman—indeed, a short, stocky nurse, her beady black eyes clouded over by love, hovered possessively over him, a bowl and spoon in her hands. She was apparently trying to cajole the evidently quite healthy Mr. Garvey to take a spoonful of applesauce.

“Open ‘ums wide, here comes the train!” she cooed. He good-naturedly opened his mouth and received the “choo-choo” to the nurse’s evident delight.

“It’s much worse than we thought,” Steele muttered _sotto voce_.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Laura cleared her throat.

The gentleman in the bed, mouth full of applesauce, turned to look at his visitors. As he stared at the two detectives, countless newspaper items and TV interviews he’d seen registered themselves on his tiny mind, which began to reel. It was as if the angel of divine retribution, come to get him for all the rotten things he might have done, all the laws he had ever broken, even all the evil thoughts he might have had in the course of a lifetime, now stood there in the doorway in the dapper form of... _Remington Steele!_

Garvey’s eyes got rounder, giving him the look of a deer caught in the headlights. “NO!” he cried and he dove under the covers, scattering spoon, bowl, and apple sauce. It was the worst case of Steele-itis they’d ever seen.

“You, you, you BULLY, you!” cried the nurse, and she pushed her face aggressively at Steele. He recoiled with a feeling of _déjà vu_. The quivering lump under the blankets moaned in terror, “He’s coming to get me! I’ll never do it again, I swear, honest!”

Laura grabbed the door frame on either side, preventing Steele’s retreat. “Mr. Garvey!” she cried as Steele backed into her. “Mr. Garvey, we’re here to help you!”

The lump on the bed stopped quivering. A tousled mane of curly dark hair, followed by two peering eyes, peeked out from under the grayish-white hospital blanket.

“You... wanna help?”

“Yes, Mr. Garvey,” Laura said soothingly.

The nurse stopped her advance on Steele, who relaxed. “Yes, Mr. Garvey,” he affirmed, then he was struck with a sudden thought. “Ms. Fishbine begged us to help you. She’s very worried about you, you know.”

“Francie?” More of Garvey’s face emerged.

 _“Francie?”_ echoed the nurse with a sharp note in her voice.

“Oh, yes,” enthused Garvey, “Oh, Nurse Ferguson, you’ll just love her! She’s my honey-bunny! I can’t wait for you to meet her!”

“Oh, yeah; I’d just love to do just that,” she replied, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Well, I can’t stop you from seeing these two, but visiting hours end in ten minutes, so talk quick!” She stomped out, her back a straight line of offense.

“Gee, but she’s swell,” Garvey said in a heartfelt manner, gazing after her fondly.

Steele and Laura stared at one another. “Swell”? “Gee”? “Honey-bunny”? Steele shrugged.

“Mr. Garvey, Ms. Fishbine begged us to talk to you. Your, er, your wives want you to sign a few papers. If you do, they won’t sue you, press for your incarceration, or pursue any legal means at all in order to put you in a deep, dark cell until you are old and gray.”

“That’s right, Mr. Garvey,” Laura said, pulling the papers on a clipboard from her bag. “You’ll be neither persecuted nor prosecuted. You might want to consult a lawyer....”

“...or he might not, Ms. Holt,” Steele grabbed the papers and presented them to Garvey. “Stated simply, you will be giving up all of your rights to any and all possessions, goods, and chattels and agree to leave the undersigned Mrs. Garveys, plural, alone, and never attempt to initiate contact with them in any way, shape, or form, for as long as you all shall live."

Garvey sighed and suddenly got all misty-eyed. “For as long as ye both shall live... gosh, but that’s poetry, ain’t it?” He smiled and signed the papers resting on his blanket-covered knees, then handed them back to Laura, who held them while Steele signed on as a witness to Garvey’s signatures. She then pulled a little Notary Public kit from her capacious bag and notarized the signatures in the all appropriate places.

“Full service,” observed Steele, impressed.

“What great gals they are,” Garvey said, hugging his knees. “You tell ‘em that if they ever want to look me up, I’m in the book.”

Laura stowed the clipboard away and turned to leave, but stopped. All her detective’s need-to-know-the-truth stopped her, and she faced Garvey, who cheerfully beamed up at her.

“Mr. Garvey. I must ask... you seem such a decent sort of man. All those women—why in heaven’s name did you do it?”

“I think what she’s trying to say is, ‘What’s it all about, Alphie?’” Steele said, ignoring Laura’s killing glare.

“Well, to tell you the truth... I didn’t marry them.”

“WHAT?!”

“ _They_ married _me_. You see, I love women. I really do. Can’t stand to disappoint ‘em. I would do anything, anything for a lady.” Garvey glanced at Laura speculatively and she drew herself up with disapproval.

Steele nodded as if he understood—and perhaps he did. He knew from personal experience how a woman could be the bane of a man’s existence and the light of his life, all at the same time. He’d changed his ways completely under Laura’s influence; he was still astonished by some of the insane things he’d done for her in the past and would undoubtedly do for her in future. He shook his head. “But you tried to commit suicide, Mr. Garvey, didn’t you realize how that might—”

“Oh, no; I didn’t!” interrupted Garvey, “that was an accident! I was crying and my eyes were so full of tears that I didn’t see the bus that side-swiped me.”

“But the letter you left in your locker at Brack’s Floral said you were going off to end it all!” cried Laura.

“Oh. Well, I was,” confirmed Garvey. “I was gonna join the Foreign Legion. No women for hundreds of miles around. If that ain’t ‘ending it all’, I dunno what is.”

The two detectives said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

* * *

Things were oh-so wonderfully back to normal at the Remington Steele and Associates offices, thought Steele to himself as he looked through the correspondence Laura had left on his desk. Three extremely complimentary letters from satisfied clients and—oops!—the monthly bill from one of his office charge cards. Oh, well; three out of four wasn’t bad. There were question marks next to several entries and a large, red circle with an exclamation point around the total. Someone tapped on his door and he swept the bill into his desk. At his cheery “Enter!” Laura popped her head in.

“There are some people here I’m certain you’d like to see,” she said and ushered in a pleased-looking Garvey Gang, followed by a tearful Ms. Fishbine.

“What’s happened now,” began Steele with dread, but Delphina Garvey just smiled broadly and waved him off reassuringly.

“Nah, it’s okay, Steele,” she grinned, “Fishbine cries for nothin’, can’t help it.”

Ms. Fishbine nodded in agreement. “I’m just so very happy,” she sobbed.

“We all got together to give you your five large and, baby, you were worth it,” Delphina Garvey dropped the check in front of Steele. He wondered if it were her manner that was making him feel like a high-priced hooker, but grabbed at the check anyway. Laura beat him to it.

“I’m heading for the bank anyway, so I’ll just deposit this for the company, Mr. Steele,” she smiled.

“Such efficiency,” he said, his own smile a bit forced. “Ah, well; if that’s all, ladies?” He ushered them back out into the lobby, but Ms. Fishbine hung back to talk to Laura.

“Ms. Holt,” she said, “I just thought you might want to know, Alphonse will be in the State Mental Hospital for only about six months! Perhaps even less if he makes good progress!”

“I’m truly pleased you’re so happy,” Laura said diplomatically. “And then what? Will you and he marry?”

“Oh, yes; we’ll be wed...,” Ms. Fishbine confirmed softly, but then an odd thing happened—her eyes slitted hard and her voice went sharp and menacing. “...and then I’m gonna teach that little three-timing worm a lesson he’s never gonna forget!” Then she smiled and was again the sweet Francie Fishbine Laura recognized.

“Yo! Fishbine! The elevator’s here!”

Ms. Fishbine left a shaken Laura leaning against the glass front doors and scurried to join the other ladies. They all waved gaily as the elevator doors closed and Steele waved back, then rejoined Laura.

“You know, I suppose that Garvey fellow may yet straighten out his life after all; he’s finally taken a step in the right direction. That Ms. Fishbine is a rather different kettle of fish from his usual run of wife, don’t you think.”

“This may not be the happy ending you’re looking for,” Laura said doubtfully.

“Oh, come now, Ms. Holt! The love of a good woman, and all that!”

“Please, you’ve been watching too many old movies, ‘love of a good woman,’ my elbow! That guy had severe personality problems from the word ‘go’! Or should I say, from the words, ‘I do’!”

“Clever, very clever.”

“I just think it might be a good idea to keep an eye on that situation, or there’s a chance the next time we’re called in, it will be to identify a body.”

“I always thought there was a bit of a mother hen to you, my dear Ms. Holt—a compliment! A compliment! But if we’re not extremely careful, we might find ourselves invited to the wedding....”

They moved towards Laura’s office, still bantering, and Mildred smiled at their retreating backs.

“Look out, you criminals!” she murmured to herself. “You’re history, international jewel thieves! Watch yourselves, all you felons, crooks and malefactors! My guys are back together and better than ever!”

With a laugh, Mildred picked up her ringing phone. “Remington Steele and Associates, how can I help you today?”

The End

 


End file.
